by Amy Efaw
Devon can feel her stomach churning now. She swallows. “Yeah.”
“And . . . when you did, you felt . . . you thought . . . what?”
Devon closes her eyes. She’s so tired. “I don’t know. I didn’t really feel . . . anything.”
Dom presses her lips together. “You’re lying to me.”
Devon checks back to Dom; when she speaks she hears her own voice shaking. “I am not a liar.”
“Oh, no? Well, you are if you’re saying that you looked at the photos of your apartment and the trash bag and felt nothing, Devon. That you read those articles about yourself and felt nothing? The pictures are pretty shocking, Devon. The story is shocking.” Dom pulls her brown accordion file out of her briefcase and picks through it. “Okay, let’s look at them together. Shall we?” She lays some sheets of paper on the table. Devon recognizes what they are—more copies of the articles and photos. She turns her eyes away.
“Okay, Devon. You saw the photo of the trash bag that the baby was found in. Let’s start there. Talk to me. About what you can remember. There’s a lot of evidence there, items I’ll need specific information about. And the other police photos, too. We’ll need to go over them, one by one. . . .”
Devon looks behind herself at the door. The walls of this small room are pressing in around her again. “I don’t!”
“What do you mean, ‘I don’t’?”
“I mean”—she takes a breath—“I don’t really remember anything.”
“You don’t remember anything about what?”
Devon doesn’t answer.
“About the stuff in the pictures? About what you felt when you read the articles? The baby? What?”
Devon says nothing, just keeps watching the door behind her.
“You know, Devon, this little game you’re playing? It’s getting very old, very fast. And please turn around and look at me while we’re talking. It’s extremely rude what you’re doing.”
Devon slowly brings her head back to a general position where she could look at Dom if she wanted to. But she doesn’t; she looks at the white cinder block wall behind Dom. “I’m not playing games, Dom. I just can’t remember. I mean, I can remember some things, but then it . . . just . . . kind of, like, stops.”
“Stops.” Dom’s tone is dubious.
“Yeah. It just kind of . . . shuts off.” Devon meets Dom’s eyes directly now. “I’m totally serious. It’s like there’s . . . nothing there.”
Dom crosses her arms and shifts on her stool, squinting at Devon. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Devon can hear the pulsing music from the common room behind them. The thick walls muffle most of it.
“Did you mention this to Dr. Bacon? This ‘not remembering’ problem?”
“Um, who?”
“Dr. Bacon. The doctor who you spoke with at Intake? The one who asked you if you’d hurt yourself?”
“Oh.” The lady with the long gray braid. But it wasn’t at Intake; it was in her cell later that night. Devon frowns, shakes her head. “She didn’t ask.”
Dom presses her lips together, nods. Makes a note on her legal pad. Then, “Okay, then tell me what you do remember.”
“About what? About that . . . That Night? Or . . . something else?” Devon brings a hand to her mouth, starts gnawing on her thumbnail. “Something before? Or after?”
“Just start talking, Devon. Start at the beginning, and I’ll listen.”
Devon takes in a big breath. She lets it out slowly. She hadn’t come up with a list of names for Dom last night, but those hours of staring at the ceiling had provided a blank screen for her mind to fill, too tired to fight it.
She’d stared up at that ceiling. And she remembered.
“Okay,” Devon says finally, her voice a whisper. “This is something I can remember.”
The feeling is what wakes her.
It isn’t like most other mornings, waking to the alarm screaming at her from the dresser. It’s that feeling, that wave of nausea—that awful rising up from the bottom of her stomach to the back of her throat—that forces her out of her bed and propels her down the dim hall toward the bathroom. Had she remained curled under her sheets a second longer, she’d be sponging puke from her mattress and hauling her bedding to the laundry room for most of the morning.
Devon drops to the linoleum just in time, flings up the toilet lid, and grips the sides of the cold bowl. She doesn’t think to pull her hair away from her mouth before she retches and retches, spewing orange vomit into the water, the splashlets spattering her black hair, her chin, even her cheeks and forehead, and the front of her oversized GIRLS HAVE MORE KICKS T-shirt she’d slept in. And the retching continues, the heaving continues, the gagging, even after she has nothing left inside herself, only the gut-rotting nausea, and a long strand of thick slobber swinging like a pendulum from her foul-tasting mouth.
Finally, Devon struggles to her feet. She stumbles to the sink, wipes her lips and chin with the back of one trembling hand while leaning on the counter for support with the other. She feels empty and weak. The sour stench of puke is everywhere, clinging to her skin, to her hair, to her T-shirt. As she reaches for the faucet, her reflection in the mirror stops her momentarily. Her face is so pale it seems to glow, the dark eyes staring back at her, large in their sockets, and she wonders for that second if the girl in that mirror could really be her. Because right now she feels like she should be dead.
She rinses out her mouth with water, swishing it around before spitting into the sink. Then she slowly brushes her teeth, the minty-flavored Crest with its pasty consistency causing another wave to rise in her throat. She closes her eyes with the effort to keep it down.
“Dev!”
Devon jumps, drops the toothbrush into the sink.
Her mom. Standing in the doorway, watching Devon, brows furrowed and worried. “You look horrible, hon.”
Her mom is still dressed for work, that navy blue Safeway apron over her white blouse and blue bow tie. She glances at the toilet, then crinkles her nose as she moves around behind Devon to flush down what Devon hadn’t.
Why is her mom home so early?
“Sheez, I thought I heard you in here. Gr-oss!” She quickly retreats back to the doorway, covering her nose with the palm of her hand. “Sorry, hon; you know the hard time I have with puke. . . .” She starts dry heaving then, takes another step backward, embarrassed. “I could never be a nurse. It’s bad enough bartending. Are you sure you want to keep your appointment today?”
That’s why she’s home early. The appointment. Devon feels her pulse spike suddenly. She leans against the counter with both hands.
“I know I got off early to take you and all. But still, if you’re sick, we could cancel it, no big deal—”
“No, Mom,” Devon says quickly. “I’m fine.” Devon tries to smile then, an attempt to give her statement credibility, because “fine” is not at all how she is feeling. In fact, besides feeling sick and weak, she’s scared. Terrified, actually. Terrified of going to the doctor this morning, terrified of what he might find. But she must go to the doctor, she must get that physical, because she wants to play soccer. “Really. I had some tuna fish last night; I think it was bad or something. Or maybe the lettuce. Both had been in the fridge for a while.” Devon feels dizzy suddenly. She takes a quick steadying breath before speaking again. “Plus, I’ve got to get that sports physical done. Our first game’s tomorrow. Coach Mark said if I fail to bring the form back this afternoon, signed by a doctor, there’s no way I can play—”
“What? You’re his starting keeper. He wouldn’t bench you for that. No way. He loves you! He wouldn’t—”
Devon shakes her head no. She’s bending over the sink, now, taking deep breaths. The effort it took for her to knock out that speech had nearly made her pass out. She hooks her hair behind her ears and picks up the red plastic container that holds her Neutrogena soap, lathers her hands. “Stop, Mom. Yeah, he would, even if it costs us a game. A rule i
s a rule. I’m lucky that he let me practice so long without it.”
From her spot in the doorway, Devon’s mom watches Devon wash her face. “Well, listen, Dev. I really hope you told him that it wasn’t my fault your form’s late. You told him that at least, didn’t you? Because I know for a fact that I said I’d make you an appointment at least a zillion times. But you just kept putting it off and putting it off. And even on registration day, the school nurse had those slots to sign up to get the physical done with her, and you refused. That’s how we did it last year, remember? And it would’ve only been twenty bucks. More convenient, too. I wouldn’t have had to miss work—”
“Yeah, I told him, Mom.”
“Oh.” Devon’s mom looks a little confused for a second, like she can’t believe she’d just won an argument with Devon without actually arguing. “Okay. Well, don’t go around eating rotten tuna anymore, okay? ’Cause I think I’ve got enough stuff going on right now without worrying about what you’re eating. I mean, I don’t want to have to quit my bartending job. Working Friday and Saturday nights at Katie Downs really brings in the bucks. And no way do I want to switch shifts at Safeway; the money’s better on graveyard, and the work’s way easier, and there are tons of people gunning for my slot. Plus, pretty soon I’ll be taking those cosmetology classes in the afternoons. I’m going to register next week. I mean, I’ve got to think about my future, too, Devon. You know that. I can’t be worrying about you all the time, hoping you’re taking care of yourself, eating right. . . .”
Devon tunes her mom out. It’s always the same blah blah blah—her various sacrifices, all her best years gone, all the things she could’ve done, not that she regrets any of it, but still. Devon finishes rinsing her face, buries it in a towel to dry her skin. The old rage starts bubbling to the surface, and for a second she forgets about how awful she feels. She thinks about what she wishes she could do right now. How she would look right at her mom, right into her eyes, and say, Um, who worries about whom around here? Who takes care of whom? But absorbing the blame is so much easier. And anyway, Devon’s too wiped out to exert the kind of energy the subsequent conversation would take, so she just says, “Well, it’s not just the tuna, Mom. I mean—” She takes a deep breath and busies herself with hanging up her towel then, because she knows what she’s about to say isn’t true. Yet. It isn’t true yet. “I kind of started my period today, and my stomach’s a little crampy from that.”
“Oh.” Devon’s mom moves to stand beside Devon to peer in the mirror, checking out her own hair to ensure that the wiry strand sticking up isn’t actually a rogue gray but a blonde highlight. “Well, in that case you better wear a pad today, even with a tampon. That’ll kind of give the doc that subtle hint that he probably doesn’t need to be poking and prodding around down there.” She shrugs, rearranges a few strands of hair. “Saves a lot on embarrassment. For everybody.” She smiles at Devon then, pats her shoulder. “Works every time. Oh, and take some Midol. It’ll zap those cramps”—she snaps her fingers—“like that.”
When her mom’s gone, Devon looks back into the mirror.
Wear a pad today.
Thanks, Mom. Relief washes over her. Devon closes her eyes.
She’s never felt so free from something in her life.
chapter eleven
Dom is quiet, just watching Devon. Pulling at her ponytail. Finally Dom clears her throat and speaks. “This was when again?”
“September,” Devon says.
Dom slides her yellow legal pad toward herself. She picks up a pen, starts writing. “So, did you go?”
“To the appointment?”
Dom looks up from her legal pad. “That’s what we’re discussing here, Devon.”
“Yeah. My mom took a quick shower and changed her clothes. And then we went.”
“And this was your regular doctor?”
Devon doesn’t say anything.
Dom taps her pen on her legal pad—tap, tap, tap. “Devon?”
“I don’t really have a regular doctor.” Devon shifts on her stool. “I don’t really get sick, so it’s no big deal. And with my mom’s jobs, we don’t have the greatest health care. We only go when we really have to.”
“Okay, but you went that day. So, where did you go?”
Devon shrugs. “One of those walk-in clinic places. That’s where we go when we do get sick or something. I went there only once before. I was twelve, I think. In sixth grade. I cut my finger. I was trying to chop up a carrot.” Devon looks down at her right index finger. She’d had a scar there for a long time; it’s faded now. In the years since, she’s jammed that finger more times than she can count, stopping goals. An ice pack and a couple of days off of soccer pretty much took care of it.
Dom returns to her legal pad, writes again. “Where was this clinic? Because I don’t remember coming across anything about it in your file. Your medical records are pretty thin.”
“Who knows? We took the bus.”
Dom looks up again, frowns. “You don’t know where you went? Come on, Devon. Don’t play dumb with me.”
Devon glares at her. “I wasn’t paying attention, okay? I wasn’t feeling very good. All I know is it was somewhere past Proctor on 26th Avenue or something. And it took, like, twenty minutes to get there.” She crosses her arms. “Happier with that answer?”
“Okay, okay,” Dom says. “Relax.”
“Well, you’re always accusing me of lying! I’m really sick of it.”
“As you may recall, you haven’t been entirely forthcoming thus far in our relationship. It’s my job to question you, draw your story out, okay?” Dom opens the DAVENPORT file. “Hold on a sec; let’s just see if I can find a record of that appointment.”
“Fine, whatever.” Devon stands, stretches her arms high over her head. She can no longer hear the music from the exercise video. She twists around, looks back at the door. Wonders where the girls are now.
Devon drops back on her stool, watches Dom as she sifts through her files. After a moment, she sighs, then folds her arms on the table and lays her head down on top of them to wait.
“Yes!” Dom says at last. “Got it.”
Devon peeks up at Dom; she has pulled out a page. She looks it over briefly before shoving it across the table to Devon.
It’s one of those generic sport physical forms, marked up with checks and illegible writing, and on the bottom a signature above a rubber-stamped address.
“Right there in your school records.” Dom smiles, points to the rubber-stamped address at the bottom of the form. “This is where you went, in case you’re wondering: the Urgent Care Center on North 26th Street—5702 North 26th Street, to be exact.”
Devon feels that uneasiness creeping back over her. Records exist for everything.
“So, we’ve got the clinic’s address. The doctor’s name, not that I can actually read his or her name on it. Doctors’ writing is the hardest to decipher for some reason—”
“His name,” Devon mumbles.
Dom raises her eyebrows, surprised with Devon’s contribution. “Okay. His name. Thank you. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Dom returns the sheet back to its place in her files. “So, ready? Tell me as many details about this appointment as you can.”
Devon sits up, rests her face in her hands, rubs at her eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“How about start at the beginning? From when you first walked into the clinic.”
Devon looks down at her wristband, pulls at it.
The waiting room is packed. Devon scans the room for an empty seat. There’s only one; it’s next to an old man with long, greasy gray hair and beard. He’s digging under his fingernails with a paper clip.
Together, Devon and her mom walk up to the reception desk.
The woman behind the desk looks up. “Name?”
Her mom pokes Devon with her elbow.
Devon clears her throat. “Devon. Devon Davenport.”
The woman consults a printed schedule
. “At ten twenty?”
“Yes.”
The woman crosses something off with a pencil, then hands a clipboard with papers to Devon over the counter. A cheap black pen is attached with string to the upper right-hand corner of the clipboard. “We don’t have any information on record for you, Devon, so if you would, please fill out this new patient questionnaire—”
“But she’s not a new patient,” her mom says. “She’s been here before. She’d cut her finger and needed stitches.”
The woman smiles, forcing politeness. “She currently doesn’t exist in our database. So, to us, she’s new.” She turns back to Devon. “When you’re finished, dear, please bring this back up here to me.” Then the woman turns back to Devon’s mom. “Payment is due at the time of the appointment, ma’am. I’ll need to make a copy of your insurance card—”
“Uh—” Her mom pushes Devon toward the waiting area. “Why don’t you just go ahead and sit down and work on that? While I get this money thing figured out? ’Kay, hon?”
“Okay.” Devon doesn’t want to witness how her mom is going to dance around the payment issue anyway. She feels guilty enough as it is. She should’ve just gotten the physical at school during registration like she did last year. That was only twenty dollars. She could’ve paid for it herself out of her babysitting money.
She moves across the room to the one empty seat and sits down. Her body, every limb, feels drained, her brain foggy. The bearded man beside her has the predictable reek of cigarette smoke about him. She wraps herself tight in her sweatshirt and rests her head on her hand, the clipboard on her lap.
She skims the two pages of questions, then starts on answering them. Some of them are easy—does she smoke, drink alcohol, take recreational drugs? No, no, and no. Which medications is she taking currently? None. But the others, the ones about family health history, are not. Devon cannot answer questions about people she’s never seen, never learned anything about. Her mom is the only relative Devon’s ever known. She’s from Spokane, was a high school cheerleader once. She’d left home one night when she was sixteen because she had gotten pregnant, and she never went back. That’s all Devon knows. And her father? Devon doesn’t even know his name. The one time her mom ever discussed him in any detail was on Devon’s seventh birthday. She had said that Devon could ask one question about her father, and she’d answer it, and that would be Devon’s birthday present. Devon had asked what her daddy looked like. “You have his exact eyes,” her mom had said. “And his straight black hair. You have his face—its shape, the nose, the eyebrows. He was tall and very athletic. His hands were big. And that’s all I’m going to say.”
